Chapter IX.FLYING FROM TEMPTATION.Between Nell and her grandfather there was now a feeling of restraint and separation. Every evening, and often in the daytime too, the old man was absent alone; and although she well knew where he went, he never spoke of it, and kept carefully out of her way.One evening the child went for a walk alone. She sat down beneath a tree, thinking sorrowfully upon this change, when the distant church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound she set out to return towards the town.She was crossing a meadow, when she came upon an encampment of gipsies, who had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any fear of them she did not alter her course, but kept straight on.But as she passed the spot Nell glanced towards the fire, and saw to her surprise that her grandfather made one of the party. Her first thought was to call him; her next to wonder who his new friends could be, and for what purpose they were there together.After a few moments she moved nearer to the group, not across the open fields, however, but creeping along towards the men by the foot of the hedge. In this way she came at length within a few feet of the fire, and standing behind a low bush could see and hear without much danger of being seen herself.[image]After a few moments she moved nearer to the groupNear the fire were three men, of whom her grandfather was one; the others were the card-players at the public-house on the night of the storm—Isaac and his rough friend, whom Nell now heard spoken to as Jowl."I go on then," the latter was saying to Nell's grandfather, "where I left off when you said you were going home. If you're sure that it's time for you to win money, and find that you haven't enough to try it, borrow, I say, and when you're able pay it back again.""Certainly," Isaac List struck in. "If this good lady as keeps the wax-works has money, anddoeskeep it in a tin box when she goes to bed, anddoesn'tlock her door for fear of fire, it seems an easy thing.""You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing himself closer to the old man—"you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the cupboard. I'd give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, whatever the sum was.""Ah," cried Isaac; "the pleasures of winning! The delight of picking up the money—the bright, shining yellow-boys—and sweeping 'em into one's pocket! The—but you're not going, old gentleman?""I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three steps away, and now quickly came back. "I'll have it, every penny.""God be merciful to us!" cried the child within herself, "and help us in this trying hour. What shall I do to save him?"She crept slowly away, keeping in the shadow of the hedges until she could come out upon the road at a point where she would not be seen. Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could, and threw herself upon her bed, almost wild with grief.The first idea that flashed upon her was flight. She would drag the old man from that place, and rather die of want upon the roadside than let him stay near such danger. Then she was torn with a fear that he might be at that moment robbing Mrs. Jarley; with a dread of cries in the silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might do if he were detected in the act. She stole to the room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. He was not there, and Mrs. Jarley was sleeping soundly.She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But how could she hope to rest? Half undressed, she flew to the old man's bedside, took him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep."What's this?" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her white face."I have had a dreadful dream," said the child. "I have had it once before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like you robbing sleepers of their gold. Up, up!"The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays."Not to me," said the child, "do not pray to me—to our Father in heaven to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must fly."He looked at her as if she were a spirit—she might have been one for all the look of earth she had—and shook more and more."There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute," said the child. "Up, and away with me!""To-night?" cried the old man."Yes, to-night," replied the child. "To-morrow night will be too late. The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"The old man rose from his bed, his brow bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.She took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of Mrs. Jarley's room she shivered, and looked up into his face. What a white face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!She took him to her own room, and, still holding him by the hand, gathered together the little stock of clothes she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from her hands, and strapped it on his shoulders—his staff, too, she had brought away—and then she led him forth.Through the narrow streets their feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill, too, they toiled with rapid steps, and not once did they look behind. But as they drew nearer the walls of the old castle the child looked back upon the sleeping town, and as she did so she clasped the hand she held less firmly, and then, bursting into tears, fell upon the old man's neck. Her moment of weakness past, the child urged him onward and looked back no more."I have saved him," she thought. "In all dangers and distresses I will remember that."They walked on all that night, and when the morning broke they laid themselves down to sleep upon a bank close to a canal. Nell was roused by a sound of voices mingling with her dreams, and when she awoke she found that a rough-looking man was standing over them, while two others were looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close to the bank while they were sleeping."Halloa!" said the man roughly, "what's the matter here?""We were only asleep, sir," said Nell. "We have been walking all night.""A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night," said the man. "One of you is too old for that sort of work, and the other too young. Where are you going?"Nell pointed at hazard towards the west, upon which the man asked if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more questions, said, "Yes, that was the place.""Where have you come from?" was the next question; and Nell named the village in which their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men."I thought somebody had been ill-using you, might be," said the man. "That's all. Good-day.""Good-day," Nell said, and looked after him as he mounted one of the horses which were used to draw the boat. It had not gone very far when it stopped again, and she saw the men waving to her."Did you call me?" said Nell, running up to them."You may go with us if you like," replied one of those in the boat. "We're going to the same place."Thinking that if they went with the men all traces of them would be lost, Nell thanked him, and in another moment she and her grandfather were on board, gliding smoothly down the canal. After a long journey the boat floated up to the wharf of a great town, where tall chimneys sent forth a dense, black vapour, and the clang of hammers mingled with the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds.It was raining heavily. The child and her grandfather passed through a dirty lane into a crowded street, where they stood for a few moments. The throng of people hurried by, while the two poor strangers, stunned by the bustle and noise, looked sadly on.Evening came on; they were still wandering up and down. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more lonely. Shivering with the cold and damp, and sick at heart, the child found it very hard to creep along at all.Chapter X.A BED OF ASHES."We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said Nell, in a weak voice, "and to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country and try to earn our bread in very humble work.""Ah! poor, houseless, motherless child," cried the old man, clasping his hands, and gazing as if for the first time upon her white face, her torn dress, and swollen feet; "has all my care brought her to this at last? Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for this?""If we were in the country now," said the child, as cheerfully as she could, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding as if he would have us fall asleep; thinking of him while he watched."Please God," she went on, "we shall be there soon—to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest; and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway—very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind does not blow in here. What's that?"Uttering a half shriek, she fell back before a black figure which came out of the door-way where they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them."Speak again," it said; "do I know that voice?""No," replied the child; "we are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging, we were going to rest here."There was a lamp at no great distance—the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this the man beckoned them, and soon they stood looking at each other in the light of its rays.The stranger was poorly clad and very dirty. His voice was harsh, but though his face was half hidden with long, dark hair, it was neither unkind nor bad."How came you to think of resting here?" he said. "Or how," he added, looking closely at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?""Our misfortunes," the old man said, "are the cause.""Do you know," said the man, looking still more closely at Nell, "how wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?""I know it well, God help me," he replied."What can I do?"The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her dress, from which the rain was running off in little streams."I can give you warmth," he said, after a pause, "nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that house"—pointing to the doorway from which he had come—"but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?"They raised their eyes, and saw in the dark sky the dull light of some distant fire."It's not far," said the man. "Shall I take you there? You were going to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes, nothing better."Without waiting for any reply he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow."This is the place," he said, after a long walk, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take her hand. "Don't be afraid; there's nobody here will harm you."With some fear and alarm they entered a large and lofty building, echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water. In this gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, a number of men worked like giants. Others, lying upon heaps of coals or ashes, slept or rested from their toil. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, upon the ground, great sheets of glowing, red-hot steel.Through this strange place their new friend led them to where one furnace burnt by night and day. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend. He at once spread Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. Then he took his station on a ragged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright, hot grave below.The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, soon caused the noise of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know for how long or how short a time she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building and from the heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their friend, saw that he still sat looking towards the fire, and keeping so very quiet that he did not even seem to breathe.Nell lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at him that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear.He moved at once, and looked into her face."I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all moving, and you are so very quiet.""They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my way. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder, there—that's my friend.""The fire?" said the child."It has been alive for as long as I have," the man made answer. "We talk and think together all night long."The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his eyes away and was musing as before."It's like a book to me," he said—"the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music; for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. But you should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!"With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes once more, returned to his seat. The child watched him for a little time, but soon gave way to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace and her resting-place a bed of down.When she woke again, broad day was shining through the openings in the walls. The noise was still going on, and the fires were burning fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.Her friend shared his breakfast—coffee, and some coarse bread—with the child and her grandfather, and asked where they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, and asked what road they would do best to take."I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head; "but there are such places yonder.""And far from here?" said Nell."Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted up by fires like ours—a strange, black road, and one that would frighten you by night.""We are here, and must go on," said the child boldly."Rough people—paths never made for little feet like yours—a dismal way—is there no turning back, my child?""There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to stop us. Indeed, you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us; I am sure you would not.""God forbid, if it is so!" said the man, glancing from the child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. "I'll show you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more."He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what course they should take when they had gained it. Then the child, with heartfelt thanks, tore herself away, and stayed to hear no more.In all their wanderings they had never longed so much as now for the pure air of the open country; no, not even on that morning when, deserting their old home, they gave themselves up to the mercies of a strange world."Two days and nights!" thought the child. "He said two days and nights we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh, if we live to reach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy!""We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said as they went wearily through the streets; "my feet are so sore, and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that our friend looked at us and thought of that when he said how long we should be upon the road."That night she lay down with nothing between her and the sky, and, with no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor old man.A penny loaf was all they had eaten that day. It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the peaceful feeling that crept over Nell. She lay down very gently, and with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into a light slumber.The next morning came, and with it came to Nell a dull feeling that she was very ill. She had no wish to eat. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see.Their way lay through the same scenes as on the previous day. There was the same thick air, the same blighted ground, the same misery and poverty.Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when they came to another busy town. After humbly asking for help at some few doors, and having been refused, they agreed to make their way out of the place as speedily as they could.They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child now felt that the time was close at hand when she could bear no more. There appeared before them at this moment, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a bag on his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked and read from a book which he held in his other hand.It was not an easy matter to come up with him and ask his aid, for he walked fast, and was some little distance before them. But soon he stopped to look more closely at his book. Then the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger, began in a few faint words to beg his help. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.Chapter XI.A FRIEND IN NEED.It was the poor schoolmaster—no other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less surprised by the sight of the child than she herself had been at the sight of him, he stood for a moment without even trying to raise her from the ground.Then he threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, tried to restore her, while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands and begged her to speak to him, were it only a single word."She is quite worn out," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face. "You have tried her too far, friend.""She is dying of want," rejoined the old man, "I never thought how weak and ill she was till now."Without another word the schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and bidding the old man gather up her little basket and follow him, bore her away at his utmost speed.There was a small inn within sight, towards which he hurried with his burden, and rushing into the kitchen, placed it on a chair before the fire.The landlady soon came running in, followed by her servant girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, and smelling-salts; and under their treatment the child came to herself after a while, and was able to thank them in a faint voice.Without suffering her to speak another word, the women carried her off to bed; and having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they sent for the doctor.He came with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch and felt her pulse. Next he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again. At last he said very gravely, "Put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise," he went on, "give her something light for supper—say the wing of a roasted fowl.""Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this instant!" cried the landlady. And so, indeed, it was; for the schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried—perhaps he did.While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a deep sleep, from which they were forced to rouse her when it was ready. As she was greatly troubled at the thought of being parted from her grandfather, the old man took his supper with her.Finding her still very restless about him, they made him up a bed in an inner room. The key of this chamber was on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; the poor child turned it on him when the landlady had gone, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart.In the morning the child was better, but she was very weak, and would need at least a day's rest and careful nursing before she could go on her journey. The schoolmaster at once said that he had a day to spare—two days for that matter—and could well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he said he would visit her in her room at a certain hour, and going out with his book, he did not return until that hour arrived.Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at the sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself."It makes me unhappy, even in the midst of all this kindness," said the child, "to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank you? If I had not met you so far from home I must have died, and he would have been left alone.""We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster; "and as to burdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage.""Indeed!" cried the child joyfully."Oh yes," returned her friend. "I have been chosen as clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from here, and a long way from the old one, as you may suppose, at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and-thirty pounds!""I am very glad," said the child—"so very, very glad.""I am on my way there now," the schoolmaster went on. "They gave me the stage-coach hire—outside stage-coach hire all the way. Bless you, they grudge me nothing. But as I have plenty of time, I made up my mind to walk. How glad I am to think I did so!""How glad should we be!" said the child."Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, "certainly—that's very true. But you—where are you going, where are you coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had you been doing before? Now, tell me—do tell me. I know very little of the world, but I have a reason for loving you. I have felt since the time you visited me in my home as if my love for the boy who died had been given to you."The kindness of the honest man gave the child a great trust in him. She told him all—that they had no friends or relations; that she had fled with the old man to save him from misery; that she was flying now to save him from himself; and that she sought a home where he would not be tempted again.For some time the schoolmaster sat deep in thought; then he said that Nell and her grandfather should go with him to the village whither he was bound; and that he would try to find them some work by which they could make a living. "We shall be sure to get on," said the schoolmaster; "the cause is too good a one to fail."They soon found that a stage-wagon would stop at the inn the next night to change horses. When the wagon came Nell was placed inside, and in due time it rolled away, the two men walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks of the inn shouting out their good wishes and farewells.What a soothing, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside that slowly moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells, the smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good-nights of passing travellers, all falling lightly upon the ear!Now and again Nell would walk for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, and sometimes even the schoolmaster would take her place and lie down to rest. So they went on very happily until they came to a large town, where the wagon stopped, and they spent the night.When they had passed through this town they came into the open country, and after a long ride began to draw near the schoolmaster's new home."See—here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low voice; "and that old building close beside it is the school-house, I'm sure. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this lovely place!"They admired everything—the old gray porch, the fine old windows, the gravestones in the green churchyard, the old tower, the very weather-cock, the brown thatched roofs of cottage barns peeping from among the trees, the stream that ran by the distant water-mill, the blue mountains far away."I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said the schoolmaster at length. "I have a letter to present, you know. Where shall I take you? To the little inn yonder?""Let us wait here," said Nell. "The gate is open. We will sit in the church porch till you come back.""A good place, too," said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it, and placing his bag on the stone seat. "Be sure that I will come back with good news, and will not be long gone."So the happy schoolmaster put on a pair of new gloves which he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off, full of pleasant excitement.Chapter XII.PEACE AFTER STORM.After a long time the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his hand, as he came along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure."You see those two old houses?" he said at last."Yes, surely," replied Nell. "I have been looking at them nearly all the time you have been away.""And you would have looked at them still more if you could have guessed what I have to tell you," said her friend. "One of those houses is mine."Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the schoolmaster took her hand, and his honest face shining with pleasure, led her to the place of which he spoke.They stopped before its low, arched door. After trying several of the keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which turned back creaking, and they stepped within.The room which they entered was large and lofty, with a finely decorated roof. "It is a very beautiful place!" said the child in a low voice."A peaceful place to live in; don't you think so?" said her friend."Oh yes!" said the child, clasping her hands earnestly; "a quiet, happy place.""A place to live and gather health of mind and body in," said the schoolmaster; "and this old house is yours.""Ours!" cried the child."Ay," said the schoolmaster gaily, "for many a merry year to come, I hope. I shall be a close neighbour—only next door; but this house is yours."Having now told his great news, the schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learned that that house had been occupied for a very long time by an old person, who kept the keys of the church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, learning all this, he had been bold enough to mention his friends to the clergyman. In a word, the result was that Nell and her grandfather were to go before the last-named gentleman next day, and if they pleased him they were to be given the charge of the church."There's a small allowance of money," said the schoolmaster. "It is not much, but still enough to live upon. By clubbing our funds together we shall do well; no fear of that.""Heaven bless you!" sobbed the child."Amen, my dear," returned her friend cheerfully; "and all of us, as it will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this peaceful life. But we must look at my house now. Come!"They went to the other door, tried the rusty keys as before, and at length found the right one. Like the first house, it held such pieces of furniture as were needful, and had its stack of firewood.To make these houses as tidy and comfortable as they could was now their pleasant care. In a short time each had its cheerful fire glowing and crackling on the hearth. Nell, busily plying her needle, mended the torn window-hangings, drew together the rents which time had worn in the scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent.The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on little, useful services, and was happy.Neighbours, too, as they came from work, offered their help or sent their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed most. It was a busy day, and night came on and found them wondering that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so soon.They took their supper together in the house which may henceforth be called the child's; and when they had finished their meal, drew round the fire, and almost in whispers—their hearts were too quiet and glad for loud talking—talked over their future plans. Before they separated the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud, and then they parted for the night.Next day they all worked gaily in arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell, asking her name and age, her birthplace, why she left her home, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his life. He loved the child as though she were his own."Well, well," said the clergyman, "let it be as you wish. She is very young.""Old in troubles and trials, sir," replied the schoolmaster."God help her. Let her rest and forget them," said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling at her. "Your request is granted, friend."After more kind words they went to the child's house, where they were talking over their happy fortune when another friend appeared.This was a little old gentleman who had lived in the parsonage house ever since the death of the clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He had been his college friend and always his close companion.The little old gentleman was the friend of every one in the place. None of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in their memory, and he was known simply as the Bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the Bachelor it was, it may be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the wanderers had found in their new home.The Bachelor, then, lifted the latch, showed his little, round, mild face for a moment at the door, and stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it."You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster?" he said, greeting Nell's kind friend."I am, sir.""I am glad to see you. I should have come to greet you yesterday, but I rode across the country to carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles off, and have but just now returned. This is our young church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake or for this old man's.""She has been ill, sir, very lately," said the schoolmaster."Yes, yes; I know she has," he said. "There have been suffering and heartache here.""Indeed there have, sir."The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his and held."You will be happier here," he said, "We will try, at least, to make you so. You have made great changes here already. Are they the work of your hands?""Yes, sir," said Nell."We will make some others—not better in themselves, but with better means, perhaps," said the Bachelor. "Let us see now, let us see."Nell went with him into the other little rooms, and over both the houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he said he would supply, and then went away. After some five or ten minutes he came back laden with old shelves, rugs, and blankets, and followed by a boy bearing another load. These being cast on the floor in a heap, Nell and her new friend spent a happy time in sorting and arranging them.When nothing more was left to be done, the Bachelor told the boy to run off and bring all his schoolmates before their new master."As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see," he said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; "but I don't let 'em know I think so. That wouldn't do at all."The boy soon returned at the head of a long row of others, great and small, who stood shyly before the little group of which the Bachelor was the centre."This first boy, schoolmaster," said the little gentleman, "is John Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper, but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good sir, would break his neck with pleasure; and between ourselves, when you come to see him at hare-and-hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it. It's beautiful!"John Owen having been thus rebuked, the Bachelor singled out another boy."Now, look at that lad, sir," said the Bachelor. "You see that fellow? Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with a good memory; and moreover, with a good voice and ear for psalm-singing, at which he is the best among us. Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed; he's always falling asleep in sermon time—and to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain that I couldn't help it."This hopeful pupil having been thus described, the Bachelor turned to another."But if," said he, "we come to a boy that should be a warning to all his fellows, here's the one, and I hope you won't spare him. This is the lad, sir—this one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir—this fellow—a diver."This is a boy, sir," he went on, "who had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's dog that was being drowned by the weight of its chain and collar, while its master stood wringing his hands upon the bank. I sent the boy two guineas, sir," added the Bachelor in a whisper, "directly I heard of it; but never mention it, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from me."The Bachelor now turned to another boy, and from him to another, and so on through the whole line. Feeling quite sure in the end that he had made them miserable by his severity, he sent them away with a small present and a severe warning to walk quietly home without any leaping, scufflings, or turnings out of the way.After a few moments the schoolmaster parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and thought himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old houses were ruddy again that night with the warm light of the cheerful fires that burnt within; and the Bachelor and his old friend, the clergyman, pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the beautiful child who had at last found a haven of rest in the village they both loved so well.
Chapter IX.
FLYING FROM TEMPTATION.
Between Nell and her grandfather there was now a feeling of restraint and separation. Every evening, and often in the daytime too, the old man was absent alone; and although she well knew where he went, he never spoke of it, and kept carefully out of her way.
One evening the child went for a walk alone. She sat down beneath a tree, thinking sorrowfully upon this change, when the distant church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound she set out to return towards the town.
She was crossing a meadow, when she came upon an encampment of gipsies, who had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any fear of them she did not alter her course, but kept straight on.
But as she passed the spot Nell glanced towards the fire, and saw to her surprise that her grandfather made one of the party. Her first thought was to call him; her next to wonder who his new friends could be, and for what purpose they were there together.
After a few moments she moved nearer to the group, not across the open fields, however, but creeping along towards the men by the foot of the hedge. In this way she came at length within a few feet of the fire, and standing behind a low bush could see and hear without much danger of being seen herself.
[image]After a few moments she moved nearer to the group
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After a few moments she moved nearer to the group
Near the fire were three men, of whom her grandfather was one; the others were the card-players at the public-house on the night of the storm—Isaac and his rough friend, whom Nell now heard spoken to as Jowl.
"I go on then," the latter was saying to Nell's grandfather, "where I left off when you said you were going home. If you're sure that it's time for you to win money, and find that you haven't enough to try it, borrow, I say, and when you're able pay it back again."
"Certainly," Isaac List struck in. "If this good lady as keeps the wax-works has money, anddoeskeep it in a tin box when she goes to bed, anddoesn'tlock her door for fear of fire, it seems an easy thing."
"You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing himself closer to the old man—"you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the cupboard. I'd give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, whatever the sum was."
"Ah," cried Isaac; "the pleasures of winning! The delight of picking up the money—the bright, shining yellow-boys—and sweeping 'em into one's pocket! The—but you're not going, old gentleman?"
"I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three steps away, and now quickly came back. "I'll have it, every penny."
"God be merciful to us!" cried the child within herself, "and help us in this trying hour. What shall I do to save him?"
She crept slowly away, keeping in the shadow of the hedges until she could come out upon the road at a point where she would not be seen. Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could, and threw herself upon her bed, almost wild with grief.
The first idea that flashed upon her was flight. She would drag the old man from that place, and rather die of want upon the roadside than let him stay near such danger. Then she was torn with a fear that he might be at that moment robbing Mrs. Jarley; with a dread of cries in the silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might do if he were detected in the act. She stole to the room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. He was not there, and Mrs. Jarley was sleeping soundly.
She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But how could she hope to rest? Half undressed, she flew to the old man's bedside, took him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.
"What's this?" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her white face.
"I have had a dreadful dream," said the child. "I have had it once before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like you robbing sleepers of their gold. Up, up!"
The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.
"Not to me," said the child, "do not pray to me—to our Father in heaven to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must fly."
He looked at her as if she were a spirit—she might have been one for all the look of earth she had—and shook more and more.
"There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute," said the child. "Up, and away with me!"
"To-night?" cried the old man.
"Yes, to-night," replied the child. "To-morrow night will be too late. The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"
The old man rose from his bed, his brow bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.
She took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of Mrs. Jarley's room she shivered, and looked up into his face. What a white face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!
She took him to her own room, and, still holding him by the hand, gathered together the little stock of clothes she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from her hands, and strapped it on his shoulders—his staff, too, she had brought away—and then she led him forth.
Through the narrow streets their feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill, too, they toiled with rapid steps, and not once did they look behind. But as they drew nearer the walls of the old castle the child looked back upon the sleeping town, and as she did so she clasped the hand she held less firmly, and then, bursting into tears, fell upon the old man's neck. Her moment of weakness past, the child urged him onward and looked back no more.
"I have saved him," she thought. "In all dangers and distresses I will remember that."
They walked on all that night, and when the morning broke they laid themselves down to sleep upon a bank close to a canal. Nell was roused by a sound of voices mingling with her dreams, and when she awoke she found that a rough-looking man was standing over them, while two others were looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close to the bank while they were sleeping.
"Halloa!" said the man roughly, "what's the matter here?"
"We were only asleep, sir," said Nell. "We have been walking all night."
"A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night," said the man. "One of you is too old for that sort of work, and the other too young. Where are you going?"
Nell pointed at hazard towards the west, upon which the man asked if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more questions, said, "Yes, that was the place."
"Where have you come from?" was the next question; and Nell named the village in which their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men.
"I thought somebody had been ill-using you, might be," said the man. "That's all. Good-day."
"Good-day," Nell said, and looked after him as he mounted one of the horses which were used to draw the boat. It had not gone very far when it stopped again, and she saw the men waving to her.
"Did you call me?" said Nell, running up to them.
"You may go with us if you like," replied one of those in the boat. "We're going to the same place."
Thinking that if they went with the men all traces of them would be lost, Nell thanked him, and in another moment she and her grandfather were on board, gliding smoothly down the canal. After a long journey the boat floated up to the wharf of a great town, where tall chimneys sent forth a dense, black vapour, and the clang of hammers mingled with the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds.
It was raining heavily. The child and her grandfather passed through a dirty lane into a crowded street, where they stood for a few moments. The throng of people hurried by, while the two poor strangers, stunned by the bustle and noise, looked sadly on.
Evening came on; they were still wandering up and down. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more lonely. Shivering with the cold and damp, and sick at heart, the child found it very hard to creep along at all.
Chapter X.
A BED OF ASHES.
"We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said Nell, in a weak voice, "and to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country and try to earn our bread in very humble work."
"Ah! poor, houseless, motherless child," cried the old man, clasping his hands, and gazing as if for the first time upon her white face, her torn dress, and swollen feet; "has all my care brought her to this at last? Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for this?"
"If we were in the country now," said the child, as cheerfully as she could, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding as if he would have us fall asleep; thinking of him while he watched.
"Please God," she went on, "we shall be there soon—to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest; and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway—very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind does not blow in here. What's that?"
Uttering a half shriek, she fell back before a black figure which came out of the door-way where they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them.
"Speak again," it said; "do I know that voice?"
"No," replied the child; "we are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging, we were going to rest here."
There was a lamp at no great distance—the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this the man beckoned them, and soon they stood looking at each other in the light of its rays.
The stranger was poorly clad and very dirty. His voice was harsh, but though his face was half hidden with long, dark hair, it was neither unkind nor bad.
"How came you to think of resting here?" he said. "Or how," he added, looking closely at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?"
"Our misfortunes," the old man said, "are the cause."
"Do you know," said the man, looking still more closely at Nell, "how wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?"
"I know it well, God help me," he replied.
"What can I do?"
The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her dress, from which the rain was running off in little streams.
"I can give you warmth," he said, after a pause, "nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that house"—pointing to the doorway from which he had come—"but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?"
They raised their eyes, and saw in the dark sky the dull light of some distant fire.
"It's not far," said the man. "Shall I take you there? You were going to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes, nothing better."
Without waiting for any reply he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.
"This is the place," he said, after a long walk, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take her hand. "Don't be afraid; there's nobody here will harm you."
With some fear and alarm they entered a large and lofty building, echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water. In this gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, a number of men worked like giants. Others, lying upon heaps of coals or ashes, slept or rested from their toil. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, upon the ground, great sheets of glowing, red-hot steel.
Through this strange place their new friend led them to where one furnace burnt by night and day. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend. He at once spread Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. Then he took his station on a ragged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright, hot grave below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, soon caused the noise of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know for how long or how short a time she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building and from the heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their friend, saw that he still sat looking towards the fire, and keeping so very quiet that he did not even seem to breathe.
Nell lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at him that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear.
He moved at once, and looked into her face.
"I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all moving, and you are so very quiet."
"They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my way. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder, there—that's my friend."
"The fire?" said the child.
"It has been alive for as long as I have," the man made answer. "We talk and think together all night long."
The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his eyes away and was musing as before.
"It's like a book to me," he said—"the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music; for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. But you should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!"
With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes once more, returned to his seat. The child watched him for a little time, but soon gave way to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace and her resting-place a bed of down.
When she woke again, broad day was shining through the openings in the walls. The noise was still going on, and the fires were burning fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.
Her friend shared his breakfast—coffee, and some coarse bread—with the child and her grandfather, and asked where they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, and asked what road they would do best to take.
"I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head; "but there are such places yonder."
"And far from here?" said Nell.
"Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted up by fires like ours—a strange, black road, and one that would frighten you by night."
"We are here, and must go on," said the child boldly.
"Rough people—paths never made for little feet like yours—a dismal way—is there no turning back, my child?"
"There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to stop us. Indeed, you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us; I am sure you would not."
"God forbid, if it is so!" said the man, glancing from the child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. "I'll show you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more."
He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what course they should take when they had gained it. Then the child, with heartfelt thanks, tore herself away, and stayed to hear no more.
In all their wanderings they had never longed so much as now for the pure air of the open country; no, not even on that morning when, deserting their old home, they gave themselves up to the mercies of a strange world.
"Two days and nights!" thought the child. "He said two days and nights we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh, if we live to reach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy!"
"We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said as they went wearily through the streets; "my feet are so sore, and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that our friend looked at us and thought of that when he said how long we should be upon the road."
That night she lay down with nothing between her and the sky, and, with no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor old man.
A penny loaf was all they had eaten that day. It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the peaceful feeling that crept over Nell. She lay down very gently, and with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into a light slumber.
The next morning came, and with it came to Nell a dull feeling that she was very ill. She had no wish to eat. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see.
Their way lay through the same scenes as on the previous day. There was the same thick air, the same blighted ground, the same misery and poverty.
Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when they came to another busy town. After humbly asking for help at some few doors, and having been refused, they agreed to make their way out of the place as speedily as they could.
They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child now felt that the time was close at hand when she could bear no more. There appeared before them at this moment, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a bag on his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked and read from a book which he held in his other hand.
It was not an easy matter to come up with him and ask his aid, for he walked fast, and was some little distance before them. But soon he stopped to look more closely at his book. Then the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger, began in a few faint words to beg his help. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.
Chapter XI.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
It was the poor schoolmaster—no other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less surprised by the sight of the child than she herself had been at the sight of him, he stood for a moment without even trying to raise her from the ground.
Then he threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, tried to restore her, while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands and begged her to speak to him, were it only a single word.
"She is quite worn out," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face. "You have tried her too far, friend."
"She is dying of want," rejoined the old man, "I never thought how weak and ill she was till now."
Without another word the schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and bidding the old man gather up her little basket and follow him, bore her away at his utmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, towards which he hurried with his burden, and rushing into the kitchen, placed it on a chair before the fire.
The landlady soon came running in, followed by her servant girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, and smelling-salts; and under their treatment the child came to herself after a while, and was able to thank them in a faint voice.
Without suffering her to speak another word, the women carried her off to bed; and having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they sent for the doctor.
He came with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch and felt her pulse. Next he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again. At last he said very gravely, "Put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise," he went on, "give her something light for supper—say the wing of a roasted fowl."
"Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this instant!" cried the landlady. And so, indeed, it was; for the schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried—perhaps he did.
While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a deep sleep, from which they were forced to rouse her when it was ready. As she was greatly troubled at the thought of being parted from her grandfather, the old man took his supper with her.
Finding her still very restless about him, they made him up a bed in an inner room. The key of this chamber was on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; the poor child turned it on him when the landlady had gone, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart.
In the morning the child was better, but she was very weak, and would need at least a day's rest and careful nursing before she could go on her journey. The schoolmaster at once said that he had a day to spare—two days for that matter—and could well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he said he would visit her in her room at a certain hour, and going out with his book, he did not return until that hour arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at the sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself.
"It makes me unhappy, even in the midst of all this kindness," said the child, "to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank you? If I had not met you so far from home I must have died, and he would have been left alone."
"We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster; "and as to burdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage."
"Indeed!" cried the child joyfully.
"Oh yes," returned her friend. "I have been chosen as clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from here, and a long way from the old one, as you may suppose, at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and-thirty pounds!"
"I am very glad," said the child—"so very, very glad."
"I am on my way there now," the schoolmaster went on. "They gave me the stage-coach hire—outside stage-coach hire all the way. Bless you, they grudge me nothing. But as I have plenty of time, I made up my mind to walk. How glad I am to think I did so!"
"How glad should we be!" said the child.
"Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, "certainly—that's very true. But you—where are you going, where are you coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had you been doing before? Now, tell me—do tell me. I know very little of the world, but I have a reason for loving you. I have felt since the time you visited me in my home as if my love for the boy who died had been given to you."
The kindness of the honest man gave the child a great trust in him. She told him all—that they had no friends or relations; that she had fled with the old man to save him from misery; that she was flying now to save him from himself; and that she sought a home where he would not be tempted again.
For some time the schoolmaster sat deep in thought; then he said that Nell and her grandfather should go with him to the village whither he was bound; and that he would try to find them some work by which they could make a living. "We shall be sure to get on," said the schoolmaster; "the cause is too good a one to fail."
They soon found that a stage-wagon would stop at the inn the next night to change horses. When the wagon came Nell was placed inside, and in due time it rolled away, the two men walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks of the inn shouting out their good wishes and farewells.
What a soothing, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside that slowly moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells, the smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good-nights of passing travellers, all falling lightly upon the ear!
Now and again Nell would walk for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, and sometimes even the schoolmaster would take her place and lie down to rest. So they went on very happily until they came to a large town, where the wagon stopped, and they spent the night.
When they had passed through this town they came into the open country, and after a long ride began to draw near the schoolmaster's new home.
"See—here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low voice; "and that old building close beside it is the school-house, I'm sure. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this lovely place!"
They admired everything—the old gray porch, the fine old windows, the gravestones in the green churchyard, the old tower, the very weather-cock, the brown thatched roofs of cottage barns peeping from among the trees, the stream that ran by the distant water-mill, the blue mountains far away.
"I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said the schoolmaster at length. "I have a letter to present, you know. Where shall I take you? To the little inn yonder?"
"Let us wait here," said Nell. "The gate is open. We will sit in the church porch till you come back."
"A good place, too," said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it, and placing his bag on the stone seat. "Be sure that I will come back with good news, and will not be long gone."
So the happy schoolmaster put on a pair of new gloves which he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off, full of pleasant excitement.
Chapter XII.
PEACE AFTER STORM.
After a long time the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his hand, as he came along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure.
"You see those two old houses?" he said at last.
"Yes, surely," replied Nell. "I have been looking at them nearly all the time you have been away."
"And you would have looked at them still more if you could have guessed what I have to tell you," said her friend. "One of those houses is mine."
Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the schoolmaster took her hand, and his honest face shining with pleasure, led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low, arched door. After trying several of the keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which turned back creaking, and they stepped within.
The room which they entered was large and lofty, with a finely decorated roof. "It is a very beautiful place!" said the child in a low voice.
"A peaceful place to live in; don't you think so?" said her friend.
"Oh yes!" said the child, clasping her hands earnestly; "a quiet, happy place."
"A place to live and gather health of mind and body in," said the schoolmaster; "and this old house is yours."
"Ours!" cried the child.
"Ay," said the schoolmaster gaily, "for many a merry year to come, I hope. I shall be a close neighbour—only next door; but this house is yours."
Having now told his great news, the schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learned that that house had been occupied for a very long time by an old person, who kept the keys of the church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, learning all this, he had been bold enough to mention his friends to the clergyman. In a word, the result was that Nell and her grandfather were to go before the last-named gentleman next day, and if they pleased him they were to be given the charge of the church.
"There's a small allowance of money," said the schoolmaster. "It is not much, but still enough to live upon. By clubbing our funds together we shall do well; no fear of that."
"Heaven bless you!" sobbed the child.
"Amen, my dear," returned her friend cheerfully; "and all of us, as it will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this peaceful life. But we must look at my house now. Come!"
They went to the other door, tried the rusty keys as before, and at length found the right one. Like the first house, it held such pieces of furniture as were needful, and had its stack of firewood.
To make these houses as tidy and comfortable as they could was now their pleasant care. In a short time each had its cheerful fire glowing and crackling on the hearth. Nell, busily plying her needle, mended the torn window-hangings, drew together the rents which time had worn in the scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent.
The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on little, useful services, and was happy.
Neighbours, too, as they came from work, offered their help or sent their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed most. It was a busy day, and night came on and found them wondering that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so soon.
They took their supper together in the house which may henceforth be called the child's; and when they had finished their meal, drew round the fire, and almost in whispers—their hearts were too quiet and glad for loud talking—talked over their future plans. Before they separated the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud, and then they parted for the night.
Next day they all worked gaily in arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.
He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell, asking her name and age, her birthplace, why she left her home, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his life. He loved the child as though she were his own.
"Well, well," said the clergyman, "let it be as you wish. She is very young."
"Old in troubles and trials, sir," replied the schoolmaster.
"God help her. Let her rest and forget them," said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling at her. "Your request is granted, friend."
After more kind words they went to the child's house, where they were talking over their happy fortune when another friend appeared.
This was a little old gentleman who had lived in the parsonage house ever since the death of the clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He had been his college friend and always his close companion.
The little old gentleman was the friend of every one in the place. None of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in their memory, and he was known simply as the Bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the Bachelor it was, it may be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the wanderers had found in their new home.
The Bachelor, then, lifted the latch, showed his little, round, mild face for a moment at the door, and stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it.
"You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster?" he said, greeting Nell's kind friend.
"I am, sir."
"I am glad to see you. I should have come to greet you yesterday, but I rode across the country to carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles off, and have but just now returned. This is our young church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake or for this old man's."
"She has been ill, sir, very lately," said the schoolmaster.
"Yes, yes; I know she has," he said. "There have been suffering and heartache here."
"Indeed there have, sir."
The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his and held.
"You will be happier here," he said, "We will try, at least, to make you so. You have made great changes here already. Are they the work of your hands?"
"Yes, sir," said Nell.
"We will make some others—not better in themselves, but with better means, perhaps," said the Bachelor. "Let us see now, let us see."
Nell went with him into the other little rooms, and over both the houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he said he would supply, and then went away. After some five or ten minutes he came back laden with old shelves, rugs, and blankets, and followed by a boy bearing another load. These being cast on the floor in a heap, Nell and her new friend spent a happy time in sorting and arranging them.
When nothing more was left to be done, the Bachelor told the boy to run off and bring all his schoolmates before their new master.
"As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see," he said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; "but I don't let 'em know I think so. That wouldn't do at all."
The boy soon returned at the head of a long row of others, great and small, who stood shyly before the little group of which the Bachelor was the centre.
"This first boy, schoolmaster," said the little gentleman, "is John Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper, but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good sir, would break his neck with pleasure; and between ourselves, when you come to see him at hare-and-hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it. It's beautiful!"
John Owen having been thus rebuked, the Bachelor singled out another boy.
"Now, look at that lad, sir," said the Bachelor. "You see that fellow? Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with a good memory; and moreover, with a good voice and ear for psalm-singing, at which he is the best among us. Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed; he's always falling asleep in sermon time—and to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain that I couldn't help it."
This hopeful pupil having been thus described, the Bachelor turned to another.
"But if," said he, "we come to a boy that should be a warning to all his fellows, here's the one, and I hope you won't spare him. This is the lad, sir—this one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir—this fellow—a diver.
"This is a boy, sir," he went on, "who had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's dog that was being drowned by the weight of its chain and collar, while its master stood wringing his hands upon the bank. I sent the boy two guineas, sir," added the Bachelor in a whisper, "directly I heard of it; but never mention it, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from me."
The Bachelor now turned to another boy, and from him to another, and so on through the whole line. Feeling quite sure in the end that he had made them miserable by his severity, he sent them away with a small present and a severe warning to walk quietly home without any leaping, scufflings, or turnings out of the way.
After a few moments the schoolmaster parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and thought himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old houses were ruddy again that night with the warm light of the cheerful fires that burnt within; and the Bachelor and his old friend, the clergyman, pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the beautiful child who had at last found a haven of rest in the village they both loved so well.